here it is recorded
of each day
from the ice
the old barn
is history’s house
home of every season’s work
elucidates the pine tree
on how things came to be
the ancient ones
leave their footprints
above and below the land.
The gnarled tree
holds the history and tells the story
of the woods.
Way out back in the shanty shack
tools rust and cobwebs gather
waiting for you to find your history.
A singular leaf rides the river
carrying the history of this autumn
in its colors.
You no longer tell time by new rings.
Now as a beam, you measure time
by the nights and days of shelter you provide,
absorbing laughter and tears into your fibers and history.